


Physical Graffiti

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair contemplates the physical graffiti that illustrates his life with Jim</p>
<p>Originally published in 2006</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physical Graffiti

 

 

 

 

**Physical Graffiti**

 

Blair wiped down the mirror and, once his reflection was clear enough to see, started the process of shaving. He slathered the cream, warmed by the nifty little machine he'd purchased for both him and Jim last year, over the lower half of his face and grinned. Someday he'd figure out why this felt so good and why he smiled every morning (and sometimes evening if going out) while doing something so ordinary. He picked up the razor and began on his left side – God forbid he should ever start on the right.

And he called Jim anal?

He chuckled - and immediately winced as the razor pinched his skin, but didn't draw blood. He took two swipes, rinsed the razor, took two more, rinsed, and continued the comforting and soothing process until done, leaving his face clean-shaven but with thin stripes of cream marking the razor trail. He wiped them off, patted on the aftershave and gave his other self a satisfied nod. He heard a pan fall in the kitchen, followed by a Jim-like expletive, and smirked. He wasn't the only klutz in this place after all. As he turned toward the door, he really hoped the noise meant that Jim was making breakfast; he was starved and a muffin or bagel wasn't going to cut it this morning.

He glanced in the mirror on the back of the closed bathroom door, something catching his attention. He tilted his head, leaned in close and squinted. Nope, he needed his glasses, which were in his room - where he also had a full-length mirror on the closet door. He grabbed his robe, discarded the towel around his waist and dumped it in the hamper. If breakfast was in the making, he didn't want to alienate the chef by leaving the bathroom a mess. Giving the room a final once-over, and nodding in satisfaction at the perfection he was leaving behind, he opened the door and headed for his room across the hall.

It was only a few steps, but he still managed a quick peek over the kitchen island – and grinned. Cool. Pancakes and bacon. In spite of the dropped pan and resulting cussing, Jim was obviously in a good mood.

Man, he loved Fridays. Especially the ones before weekends that Jim actually had off.

Once inside his room, he got his glasses from the nightstand, slipped them on and shrugged off his robe. Naked, he walked over to the closet door, twisted around enough to see his back, and gave out with a low whistle before saying to himself, "Well, I'll be damned. How the hell did that get there?"

He reached back and ran a finger over the scar, trying to remember its origins...but coming up blank. This was so weird. After all, it's not like he had a lot of--

Oh, wait.

David Lash.

Sure. The fight here in the loft. He'd fallen over the coffee table and onto one of the chairs he'd used when trying to fight the serial killer off. A piece of the broken leg had embedded itself in his back...an injury discovered much later at the hospital.

He gave a little "humph" sound and started to walk toward his bed and the pair of boxer shorts sitting on the spread but something made him turn back and face the mirror again. Blair glanced down at his leg – at the scar that ran a few inches up his thigh.

Bullet wound. He touched it almost reverently.

Okay, as long as he was naked...and in front of a mirror....

***

Jim put the bowl of batter on the counter next to the griddle and glanced up at Blair's room, intending on yelling that breakfast was almost ready, but what he saw stopped him.

All right, his roommate wasn't exactly shy, but neither was he as comfortable in the nude as Jim - and yet, there he was, apparently naked and standing in front of the mirror on his closet door.

Jim craned his neck. Oh, yeah. Naked all the way down.

Very.

He cleared his throat and tried hard - really, he did - to avert his gaze, but it was a lost cause. Why would anyone voluntarily look away from a naked Blair Sandburg?

Thank you. Exactly.

And now that he _was_ looking - damn, what the hell was his partner doing?

Not even sentinel sight could tell him, but it did kind of appear as though...it looked almost as though Blair might be inspecting his body. Jim couldn't find fault with the idea since it was something he'd often wanted to do himself.

Inspect Blair's body tip to toe and back again.

Okay, he had to find out what the hell was going on in there. He put the spatula on the counter, turned the griddle down to warm, and walked over to the French doors. He knocked but then immediately walked in – something he rarely did, but he was no fool and a chance to see his partner like this was more than he could ignore, let alone resist. Stopping just inside, he asked gruffly, "Sandburg, what the hell are you doing?"

If that didn't hide his rather lustful yearnings, he didn't know what would. Unfortunately, the rather abrupt question caused Blair to turn around, which took away Jim's view of the man's ass – oh, wait. Jim gave a mental chuckle. Mirror.

And of course, he now had a nice view of the front. Double whammy. God, he loved mirrors.

"Oh, man, Jim. Since when do you—"

"Since I spotted you giving yourself a physical examination more thorough than anything the Army, an organization known for its thoroughness when examining its soldiers, could do."

Okay, this was something he'd never seen. A full body flush on his partner. It was kind of...nice.

God, I'm a pervert, he thought. A Grade A pervert. He should arrest himself.

"I...was...I was...you know...and...there were way more than I thought...so I'm doing this kind of...and why the hell not? It's my body, man. My room. If I want to—"

"Way more what?" Jim couldn't help but ask, while conveniently ignoring the whole "my room" thing.

"Scars. Way more scars." He grinned then, a rather sheepish one, and added, "The physical graffiti of life with Jim Ellison. I'm kind of...you know...proud...sort of."

Unexpected. Completely unexpected. And the way he felt about it, the sudden lurch his stomach took, made him physically sick. He reached back, found nothing to support him, and somehow made it over to the bed, where he sat down rather abruptly.

Blair, suddenly concerned, took the two steps necessary to bring him to Jim's side. Aware of his state of undress, he grabbed his robe and slipped it back on. Still standing, if somewhat awkwardly, he asked, "Jim? You okay?"

"Oh, sure. Why wouldn't I be? My partner and best friend is standing in front of his fucking mirror, counting up the scars he's managed to accumulate over the years, thanks to his good friend and partner, James Joseph Ellison. Yep, I'm fine."

"Hey, they're not all from working with you. Why…look at this one." Blair promptly shoved up the right sleeve, held out his arm, and pointed to a jagged, two inch scar. "This was an arrow. Yep, you heard me right, an arrow - from the Jojoba tribe. They didn't like our dig and in the middle of the night, they attacked. Why, if I'd zigged instead zagging? Yep, no long-haired partner for you, man."

Jim didn't look - couldn't look. "Right. The Jojoba tribe. Sure. Arrow," he said dully.

Blair rolled his eyes heavenward. "If this is going to be a pity party, we'll need something stronger than orange juice."

"Ha-ha, Sandburg."

"Jim, didn't you hear me? I said I was proud of them."

Jim looked up at him. "If that's supposed to make me feel better – it won't work. Everyone knows you're crazy."

Blair's mouth opened and almost immediately snapped shut. Finally he sat down.

After several odd minutes – odd because to Jim, they were comfortable minutes in spite of the scar discussion. He could feel the warmth of Blair's body through the robe and, instead of causing a flare-up of lust, he found it soothing.

"Crazy, am I?" Blair suddenly asked. "Yeah, I suppose anyone who lives with you would fit that description."

Hearing the jest in his partner's voice, Jim smiled. "Can't argue with that, Sandburg." He turned slightly and looked his partner in the eye. "Proud?"

Accepting the sudden question, anticipating it even, and understanding how important the answer was to Jim, Blair nodded solemnly. "Very. But it's hard to explain."

"For you? Blair 'I know the encyclopedia and dictionary forward and backward' Sandburg?"

Smiling, Blair said, "I'm just afraid it'll sound crazy."

Jim arched an eyebrow as he said, "Didn't we just have this conversation? Crazy's a given."

"Oh, well then," he said sarcastically. "I've nothing to lose." He cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner, one that brought a smile to Jim's lips, and said, "See, anthropologists observe, as you know. But we sometimes - all right, we always find ourselves observing more than living. That's where I was when we met." He gave a small shake of his head. "Hell, you know about my journals and the kind of stuff I used to write in them. I mean, how many men do you know put such detailed descriptions of sexual encounters in writing the way I did? I wasn't living, Jim, I was observing - even my own life."

Jim searched the face he knew as well as his own, looked deep into Blair's eyes, and found more than he thought he'd ever see - more than he figured even Blair knew was there. His gaze dropped down to Blair's mouth…and the small scar just to the left. Smiling tenderly, he brought his hand up and touched it lightly with a finger. "And this? A criminal? A piece of flying debris from all the explosions you've been close enough to be hit by? Or maybe another arrow?"

Blair chuckled, the sound and feel of it traveling through Jim's finger and settling in his chest, somewhere rather close to his heart.

"No, nothing so adventuresome. I'm afraid you can't claim this one. I had a mole removed."

For some ridiculous reason, that struck Jim as funny. He started laughing - and found that he couldn't stop.

Watching him, Blair shrugged his shoulders and said, somewhat affronted, "Not all my graffiti can be so dramatic, you know."

"Thank God," Jim managed to gasp out.

"Hey, your body is nothing but one great big wall of graffiti. A beautiful wall, but still...."

An undercurrent of something almost indefinable in Blair's voice stopped Jim's laughter cold and he found himself staring into Blair's eyes again. Finally, voice soft, he asked, "Maybe we should compare our graffiti."

Blair's eyes widened in surprise even as he said, "That's an idea."

"I'd kind of like to see just how much life with me has changed your canvas."

Blair closed his eyes, shook his head in frustration and said with disgust, "The metaphors are flying fast and furious here, man. Let's see if we can't break the macho mold and just say what we mean, okay?"

Jim cocked his head. "You mean I should just come right out and say, 'Sandburg, I want to jump your bones'?"

The spurt of laughter from Blair left Jim grinning from ear to ear.

Finally calming down, Blair said, "Yeah, Jim. Yeah, that's what you should do. And I'd say, 'What a coincidence, I want to jump yours too.'"

A wariness crept into Jim's gaze as he asked softly, "How many times, Chief?"

Blair shoved lightly at him with his shoulder. "Jerk. But to answer your insecure-based question: I can't count that high."

Jim's expression relaxed and softened. "Me either."

Smiling almost wickedly, Blair said, "On the count of three, then?"

"On the count of three," Jim agreed, his own smile wide and real.

"One," they said together. "Two...three...."

 

-30-


End file.
